Abbreviated Magic
Two short tales by
Wayne Benham
Which Doctor
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Deja Voodoo
Copyright 2012 by Wayne Benham
Smashwords Edition
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Which Doctor
He senses it.
A quick glance over his shoulder catches her before she drops her gaze to the page in hand and pretends that she wasn’t watching him.
He pauses momentarily before returning both eye and attention to his preferred room companion, releasing the cork from his Red Rabbit bottle opener, and carefully pours six generous ounces of wine into a glass. He reaches for the glass, but quickly withdraws the hand and initiates a pretense of his own. Inspection of the bottle’s label. A minor pretense, more of a stall really, intended to pass a few minutes time while allowing the wine a chance to breathe.
He does not actually read the label. He is already more than sufficiently familiar with the label. And he doesn’t really care whether the wine breathes or not.
He has no wish to resuscitate the fluid, simply to drink it.
Patience is not one of his strongest virtues. Nor, however, is it one of his weakest.
“Would you like a glass?” he asks without turning.
“What is it?” she replies without looking.
“Merlot. A new one I stumbled upon a few days ago. This will be first taste.”
“I’ll pass. You know how I feel about those heavy reds.”
Yes, he knows. He only offered to be polite. And perhaps to stall a bit longer. If she wasn’t trespassing upon his privacy and sitting right here he wouldn’t bother with this bottle-breathing nonsense.
Why is she sitting here?
He turns again suddenly and again catches her dropping eyes and quickly flipping a page of the catalog.
Mail order catalog. Fairly thin. As far as he can see, not clothing. Ordinarily something she’d fly through in about thirty seconds.
A small smile curls his lip.
“So, what’s the plan this time around?” he asks, thinking if nothing else it should be an amusing diversion. “Colonel Mustard in the parlor with a tire iron?”
“Excuse me?” she says. Not looking up from the catalog.
“No, I don’t believe I will. Come now. Humor me. The wine is busy breathing. I’m just curious what the next design is to prevent me from doing the same.”
A slight pause before she responds. Slightly too long a pause. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand what it is you’re asking.”
“Really?” A shake of the head and a minor snort of derision. “You really think I’m that naive? That unaware?”
“Unaware of what, dear?”
“That you want me dead. And have, in fact, been actively pursuing the event. Naturally, you’ve disguised your true intent and attempted to make it appear accidental. And if you’d been successful I’m quite certain you could have sold that idea to everyone, all the way out to the cheap seats. But you can’t sell it to me.” He pauses briefly, and imagines seeing her skewered on a pin like an insect in a killing jar. “You’ve tried to kill me, what, three times in the last three months?”
They stare at each other in silence for a moment.
“Oh, come on,” he encourages. “Let’s be honest with one another. At least for the next few minutes. What can it hurt?”
He expects her to falter and break eye contact, but she smiles instead and shrugs.
She wasn’t expecting to get into this yet, but, what the hell. She closes and discards the catalog carelessly. If nothing else, she thinks, this should be amusing.
“Four times actually,” she corrects.
“Four?” Her sudden candor surprises him. He did not anticipate it.
“Yes, dear,” she confirms. “Four.”
He looks away, trying to collect his thoughts. “Four,” he repeats. “Let’s see, uh, the staircase thing,” he says, raising an index finger.
“Oh, don’t bother, dear heart. It was after the stairs and before the gas leak. Okay? But it was such a complete fiasco that I’m sure you never even noticed. You do realize, of course, that this would be far less troublesome if I could simply tiptoe into your room late one night while you were sleeping and slit your throat. Regrettably, however, such obvious methods tend to attract far too much unwanted attention.”
“Of course,” he agrees, feeling somewhat at a loss for words. His amusing diversion having now strayed considerably from the expected track.
They stare at one another again in silence.
She appears calm and relaxed. He seems tense and on edge.
“If you’re so unhappy,” he blurts out, “why don’t you just leave me? Is killing me really necessary?”
She sighs. “Necessary, perhaps not. Preferable, oh, absolutely. Divorce has always been an option. However, with your money and connections you’re better positioned to hire the brand name lawyers who can creatively conceal most of your assets and true worth and reduce me to clawing for a lowball settlement, a large chunk of which will go to my lawyers, and all the while still painting me as a greedy and petty piece of bitch pie.” She pauses briefly. “Or… I could be the unfortunate grieving widow. With a stream of golden sympathy and positive attention and a decidedly happier and healthier bank account. Definitely door number two, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You make it sound so clinical,” he says sadly, shaking his head. “So cold.”
She tilts her head slightly, considering. “I suppose that’s true. There really is nothing personal about this, you know.”
“Murder is impersonal?”
“Sometimes, of course it is. Hence the term, cold blooded. Hired killers are simply doing their job. Correct?”
“You’re not a hired killer, and I’m not your contract hit. I’m your husband.”
“Yes, lover, you are my husband,” she acknowledges immediately. “And you are also my investment. Please, allow me to put this in language you can better understand. It’s a business move, darling. I have invested almost nine years with you. Now I want a return on that investment. And, of course, I want to maximize that return to the best possible advantage. As stated, the death portfolio does seem to produce the most favorable yield. At somewhat higher risk, granted, but with a tremendously enhanced potential dividend.”
“You’re insane.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not. But I suppose I should admit that I am actually a greedy bitch.”
No argument there, he thinks, but quickly decides to leave it unspoken.
“I could make a phone call first thing tomorrow morning,” he says. “Start divorce proceedings myself. Remove that decision from your hands.”
“Yes, you could. Of course, your Daddy would be ever so disappointed in you. He and ‘The Missus’… does he not remember her name, is that the problem…have been married forty-six years. Some of those might even have been happily. ‘Til death do you part. Do you recall hearing those words? Your parents do. They may have glossed over a few other parts of the vows, but they’ve definitely got that one down.”
He brushes her words aside with the back of his hand. “They’ll understand. I’m quite sure under the circumstances…”
“What circumstances?” she interrupts sharply. “You file for a divorce. I assume on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. Of course, I’ll be simply devastated and thoroughly heartbroken. And that, dear, is what they will understand. Question: your mother, you, and me… which one is your father most fond of?”
He knows the answer. Of course. Knows it immediately. But he doesn’t care to give her the smug satisfaction of announcing it.
“If you threw in my sister,” he offers instead. “She’d win hands down.”
“That’s true. So what? Your sister is also more fond of me than she is you. Game, set, and match, darling. I win. Of course, if you could manage to convince them of my cold and murderous heart that might make a difference. Circumstances. Even circumstantial circumstances. My goodness, if only you possessed some proper circumstances.”
She’s right and he knows it. Filing for divorce would create nightmarish problems with his family. And therefore his finances. That might even be what she wants. What she’s trying to accomplish. Goad him into firing the first shot.
“Oh, my word,” she announces with a laugh. “I’ve just realized. I’m becoming more like your parents. I, too, have come to fully appreciate and embrace the spirit of that ‘til death vow. How ironic.”
Suddenly he can’t bear to stand still. He turns and begins to pace slowly. Back and forth. Five paces left, reverse turn, five paces right, repeat. Always remaining parallel to her position on the loveseat.
The loveseat, he thinks. How inappropriate.
She follows him with her eyes for the first few passes, before correctly discerning that her attention is unnecessary. She knows eventually he will either arrive at his destination or get lost along the way and return seeking direction.
She sits back, shifts, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, smoothing the slightly puckered fabric over the newly exposed knee of her satin lounging pants.
“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he says while completing his fifth reverse pivot.
“I cannot deny, so far, it has been quite entertaining.”
Of course. He is not amused. She is amused.
“I don’t understand why you’re actually telling me all this now.“
“Why not?” she replies. “Unless I’m mistaken, you already suspected much of it. And it was your suggestion that I be honest. Now.”
That’s true. He did ask for honesty.
He just wasn’t prepared to receive it. At least not so much of it.
He regrets his call for honesty. He regrets his impulsive initiation of this conversation. He regrets his rash arrogance in pursuit of a brief moment of personal amusement.
He should have waited for his moment to arrive. When he controlled the advantage.
Once again his impatience has not served him well.
At least he knows the truth now. No doubts to his suspicions. Or to her true nature.
Therefore he has no qualms left about the decisions made or the actions taken. What happens now will ultimately be of her own doing.
“It’s been almost a month since your last failed attempt,” he says, stressing the word failed.
She hesitates, and then nods. “That sounds about right.”
“So, what’s next? I believe that was the original question I asked. I mean, after four straight flops I’m sure you must be planning something surefire guaranteed for this go-around. And coming fairly soon too, I imagine.”
“Honestly, dear. I’m not planning anything whatsoever at this time.”
“No?”
“No,” she repeats. “Not at this time.”
“Ah, I see. Not at this time. But soon perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But hopefully it won’t be necessary.”
He ceases his pacing and fixes her with serious appraisal.
That was an interesting statement. Most interesting.
He is about to inquire what he could do to better facilitate that lack of necessity, but something urges him to hold his tongue.
She’s toying with me, he thinks.
Trying to confuse him. Trying to mess with his head. Trying to distract him.
From what?
He resumes pacing. Five paces north, reverse, five paces south, repeat.
The movement seems to quiet his thoughts. Understanding settles in.
She is playing with him.
Why should he believe she’s being honest? At least completely so. She’s already admitted four attempts to commit murder. His murder. Does he really think a few lies and deceit beneath her moral compass? Of course not.
He exposed his suspicions too soon. A denial from her would mean nothing. Instead she distracted him with an admission. A ploy. Early truth to draw him in for the lies to follow.
She wants him to lower his guard. Lull him into a false sense of security.
Why?
Because she is planning something. And it’s coming soon. Very soon.
Possibly as soon as tonight.
He takes the next five paces with a firmer and more deliberate step.
Meanwhile, she has tuned out his pacing more quickly this time. She leans back, brings a hand idly to her mouth and bites down on one fingertip.
This is a dangerous game you’re playing, she thinks.
Exciting. Stimulating. Life-affirming… ironically. But dangerous.
She glances at him. Obviously he hasn’t reached his destination yet. Hopefully soon.
She reaches for the glass resting atop a sandstone coaster on the small end table beside her.
Still pacing, he watches from the corner of his vision as she raises the short tumbler to her lips and takes a quick sip. Water? Probably. She drinks a lot of water. Yes, and she probably wants to keep a clear head right now.
Reminded of his neglected wine, he turns his attention to the glass waiting on the sideboard. Waiting patiently. Probably breathless by now.
He decides that wine is precisely what he needs now.
One final pivot and he veers course for refreshment.
And if she wants to believe his guard is down, perhaps he should encourage it.
“So, no plans yet for the next big oops, huh?” he says, picking up his glass and gently swirling the wine inside. “Not at this time. What a shame. Having trouble coming up with a really foolproof accident?”
She instantly perceives his attitude shift and hesitates before responding. The wise course now would favor caution. The amusing, however, would suggest knocking him off his pins.
“Actually, I’m through with accidents,” she reveals. “Obviously too unpredictable, too fallible. I thought it was time for a change of direction. Something more direct.”
“Oh, do tell. Any ideas for this new and improved modus operandi?” he asks, raising the glass slowly toward his lips.
“I thought poison might be good.”
The glass stops an inch from its target and descends ever so slightly.
“Poison?” he says, shaking his head. Almost scoffing. “I thought you were trying to avoid undue attention.”
“I am. I wouldn’t use something common or crude or obvious, of course. I can’t have you vomiting all over the floor, or foaming at the mouth, now can I? And I wouldn’t want a poison that eats your liver or leaves enough trace residue in your blood to show up on any standard tox screen. Give me some credit here, darling. My poison would be subtle and exotic. Virtually undetectable. Something that kills but appears natural, like a heart attack perhaps.”
The glass descends a few more inches.
“Well, that certainly sounds good. I’ll give you that. But I suspect this perfect poison of yours might be a rather difficult item to get your hands on,” he suggests, and attempts a small smile that manifests as little more than a nervous twitch.
“Oh, but I already have,” she announces. “Although I was advised to handle it with rubber gloves, so I suppose I haven’t actually gotten my hands on it yet.”
He glances down into the dark red liquid, and tries to appear casual as he returns the glass to the countertop.
“Oh, dear me,” she laughs softly. “That was a bit ill timed on my part, wasn’t it? I am so sorry, darling, but I simply couldn’t help myself. You should see your face.”
“You find this humorous?” He glares at the glass uneasily. “How… is this…”
“Oh, come now. Surely you can’t actually think I’ve poisoned your wine. How indeed? I’ve been sitting right here ever since you entered the room, selected your bottle, opened the bottle, and poured that glass. And you’ve been right there, standing between me and your wine, the entire time. Tell me, how did I manage to contaminate your wine?”
“All right. You could have done it before I came into the room. Used a syringe and a small hypodermic needle. Injected the poison right through the cork. It would leave such a tiny hole I’d never even notice it.”
“Yes, dear, I’ve seen that one on TV, too. More than once. I think Colombo may have done it first, but it’s been retread by several other shows. Enough so it’s practically trite by now. Besides, how would I know which bottle to poison? Did I have a premonition, a sixth sense, telling me which bottle of wine you would be drinking tonight?”
He shakes his head, although with diminished conviction. “You wouldn’t have to know which one. Sooner or later I would drink the poisoned one.”
“Do you realize how ridiculous that is? Do you? Sooner or later. How many bottles do you have in that cabinet right now? Three dozen?”
“Uh… forty-two. Including the one I pulled tonight.”
“Okay. And you have at least another two hundred or so in reserve downstairs, which you periodically bring up to replenish this cabinet. Plus you’re continually buying more. A bottle could sit here for months before you finally drink it. A year. No, dear, sooner or later is simply not an acceptable timetable.”
“Well, a year is…” he begins.
“You might never drink that bottle. You might give it away, use it as a hostess gift. Oh, better yet. What if you have a couple of guests here when you finally decide to open that special bottle? So all three of you drop dead. Sure. Great plan. What do you think? You think that might attract a little unwanted attention?”
He’s feeling stubborn now. Doesn’t want to concede the point.
“You could have poisoned all the bottles,” he mutters softly.
“Oh, dear lord,” she says, letting her head fall forward. “All right, logic and reason are out. Let me make this easier for you.”
She grabs the tumbler from the table, downs the last of her water, and extends the now empty glass. “I’ve changed my mind, dear. Pour me some wine, please.”
He takes up the bottle. Pauses, glancing up at the rows of inverted stemware hanging from the slotted wood rack.
“Please, don’t bother,” she says sharply. “This isn’t a wine tasting. I’m simply trying to convince you that I did not poison or otherwise tamper with your precious wine. So just pour some of that wine into this glass which I will then chug down. Perhaps then, we can both move on.”
He quickly steps forward, pours two inches of wine into her glass, and watches as, true to her word, she immediately drains the liquid in one lift and two swallows. Her lips purse slightly in displeasure of the taste.
“Satisfied?” she asks, waving the empty glass. “Oh, I suppose we really should wait a few. Give the poison a chance to do its stuff, yes? What do you think, dear? Two, three minutes. Just to make sure.”
She’s right of course. He knows she’s right. It is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. Poisoning forty-two bottles. Ridiculous. He selected the bottle. He opened it. He poured it. She’s right. It’s ridiculous. She couldn’t have poisoned the wine.
She’s always right. Right about the wine. Right about his asking for honesty. Right about getting a divorce. Right about his family. Right about the circumstances. Right about everything. As always.
He’s becoming quite weary of her righteousness.
At this point, he wishes he’d had the foresight to poison the wine himself.
He retreats to the sideboard. Picks up his glass.
He has one final moment of cautionary apprehension. What if that wasn’t a glass of water beside her? What if it was a glass of poison antidote?
Ridiculous. There probably never was any poison.
Only more distractions.
She sits, still holding the empty glass, placidly bouncing her free leg up and down. A picture bearing little semblance to someone with any concern of impending death.
He raises the glass, takes a modest sip, holds it on his tongue briefly, rolls it gently before allowing it to seep slowly down his throat.
Wonderful. Smooth, full-bodied. Red cherry on the tongue, and blackberry. A hint of something else in the finish. Roasted coffee?
He sees her watching him. They lock eyes.
“How is it?” she asks.
“Excellent,” almost adding more before realizing it is actually of no interest to her.
“Oh, good,” she smiles. “I’m so glad the poison didn’t spoil the taste for you.”
He gives her a look that he hopes conveys his disdain for the sarcasm. “Obviously, you haven’t been entirely honest this evening.”
“You’re wrong,” she counters. “The one thing that’s kept this conversation so much fun has been in adhering to your call for honesty. I’ve been nothing but.”
“Really? You don’t have any poison. Right? There never was any poison.”
“Wrong again,” she says. “The poison is very real, and exactly as described. And I do have it. Honestly.”
“Well, then, I have you on another point,” he argues. “You said you weren’t planning anything at this time. But if you do have this poison then surely you are also planning, in some manner, to make use of it. Acquiring the poison is, in itself, part of the plan. You can’t have it both ways. Either you have the poison and are planning something. Or you have neither plans nor poison. One way or another there’s a lie involved.”
“Sorry, wrong again. Third strike, my pet, you’re out. I was not and I am not planning anything at this time. The planning is already done. Over. Past tense. Now we are in the midst of the execution phase. Your execution. You are done. You,” she says, smiling sweetly. “are past tense, darling. Or at least on the way there.”
More distractions, he thinks. But he must admit she is skilled at it. “Really? How so?”
She points a finger at his wine glass. “Poison, dear. Of course.”
He shakes his head slowly, disappointed by this weak attempt. “Did you really expect me to fall for that one again?”
“Honestly, dear. I didn’t really expect you to fall for it the first time. Stumble perhaps. But fall…”
“You did not poison the wine,” he states with a dismissive wave.
“No,” she says. “You did.”
What? She’s gone completely over the top now.
“Oh, I poisoned the wine.” he sneers. “How remarkable. I don’t recall doing that. And I’ve been trying so hard to cut back on my poison, you know. And saturated fats. I guess I’ll have to be more careful in the future.”
“You’re being flip.”
“And you’re spouting nonsense,” he counters. “So why shouldn’t I treat it as such?”
“Please, darling. Don’t spoil this special moment. It’s the last one we’ll ever share.”
“Oh, stop already. Be serious. Be truthful. There is no poison in the wine.”
“Look at me,” she demands, and waits until he complies before continuing. “Whether you believe or not is of little consequence to either of us now. I might prefer that you did, but it’s your choice. My attitude may not always be serious, but every word I’ve told you has been truth.”
She takes a deep breath and begins to speak again softly and slowly. “The poison is very exotic. From a plant found only in the rain forests of South America. Sorry, I can’t give you a name because I simply don’t remember it, and probably wouldn’t pronounce it correctly even if I did. It’s completely organic, breaks down in the system rapidly and is almost impossible to detect unless you know what you’re looking for. The final result is cardiac arrest. All signs consistent with a massive heart attack. It’s also supposed to be both odorless and tasteless, but I guess you’d be the better judge of that now.”
She seems so sincere, but he knows she’s well versed in fakery.
“I feel perfectly fine,” he says dryly.
“You only had a small amount. Pardon the expression, but we should still have a few minutes left to kill before… well, before it does.”
“I see. Of course, you drank considerably more wine than I did. How’s your departure time looking?”
“Sorry, dear,” she says. “You didn’t poison my wine. Only your own.”
“Well, that was certainly a major oversight on my part. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Honestly dear, yes, I would. And if you had poisoned me, I personally would consider it justified. Almost an act of self defense. Not sure you would ever convince a jury to see it that way, of course.”
One part of this latest exchange lingers in his mind. His wine, her wine. Not the bottle, but… He looks at the clear glass stemware hanging upside down in the cabinet rack. No, that doesn’t work either. He removed his glass from the rack only after he’d uncorked the bottle. She had no chance to add anything to the glass before, or after, his pour.
He would like to fully trust his instincts and disregard this ever evolving fabrication, but somehow she manages to keep pulling him in. Carefully, he sets his glass down.
“Let’s say you’re telling the truth, and that I believe you,” he suggests. “I could call the police right now. Tell them everything you’ve told me. You’ve poisoned me. Oh, and ask them to send an ambulance. I should probably lead off with that. Okay, maybe they can’t get here in time. I’m dead. But, lady, you’re beyond drawing attention. You’re screwed.”
“Please, be my guest,” she says with a sly grin. “Call the police. Call anybody and everybody you desire. Good luck. Because I’ve hidden all the phones. And your tablet thing. And it may take you quite some time to find them. Here, I’ll even give you a hint. The phones and the tablet are hidden in the same place as all the car keys.”
He’s about to respond but she cuts him off.
“In case you’re wondering, the Radfords,” referring to their nearest neighbor, “are still in London. Won’t be home until next week. The next closest house is up canyon, about six-tenths of a mile to the drive, not sure how much further to their door. If you hurry you might even make it in time. Of course, if you do hurry the extra exertion will significantly increase your heart rate, which will speed the poison, and… well, I think you get the drift. Honestly, dear, I think your best hope now is to remain calm, embrace your disbelief, and pray for a miracle.”
He pauses, thinking this would be an easy claim to verify. Go find one phone still in its usual location.
But that would mean leaving her alone in this room.
And that may be just what she wants him to do.
“Tell me, how did you come by this foul brew?” he asks. “This malevolent milk that’s made miasma of my Merlot?”
“Your arrogance is showing, dear,” she says. “Regardless, I am glad you asked. I was hoping you might.”
“Glad to oblige. I only hope it will be worth my severely limited time.”
“I’ll try,” she says with a slight shrug. “So, I was considering a poison or drug for your next misadventure. But for a wealth of reasons, as we’ve already discussed, I had more or less decided to quit the idea and move on. And then I happened to meet a very interesting man.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. A mystery man. Is he accomplice? Lover? Or both?”
“Hush, honey. If you keep interrupting I may not finish this story before you die. And since you are likely the only person I’ll ever be able to share it with, I’d really rather that not happen. Besides, wouldn’t you rather go out knowing how ingenious and intelligent your wife, and more important, your adversary, really is?”
He pretends to pull the zipper across his lips.
“Thank you,” she says. “To answer part of your question, I’m not in the market for a lover… yet… and even if I were, he isn’t really my type. It was strictly business, darling.”
He nods his head in acknowledgement.
“He is an unusual man. He told me to call him Bo, but I doubt that’s his real name. He is from Haiti, but his ancestors were originally west Africans, transplanted by the slave trade. For generations his family, especially the women, practiced voodoo, or Vodou, as it’s called in Haiti. Bo’s mother and grandmother were mambos, or voodoo priestesses. Having no daughters, his mother passed the knowledge to her youngest son instead. He did well, but in his teens Bo found himself drawn to the darker aspects of the religion. Here he excelled. He turned it into a business, and by Haitian standards he made quite a good living with it.”
As she speaks, he listens to this biographical puff piece with only half an ear and a rapidly dwindling expectation of the point to the story appearing soon.
Then the pieces begin to click into place.
And he realizes… oh, this is it. This is what he’s been waiting for. The time is right. He just didn’t recognize it until now.
Now it’s his turn to be amused.
He is so glad he initiated this conversation tonight.
He listens to her now with renewed interest and undivided attention
“Eventually he left Haiti to find wealthier customers and expand his knowledge. He studied with the Santeria, went to Africa to learn Juju, and spent two years in the South American jungle living with indigenous tribes. That’s where he learned of this poison.”
“A witch doctor?” He has to clench his jaw to stifle an eruption of amusement. “You got your poison from a witch doctor?”
“He’s a Bokor,” she says firmly. “It’s like a hired sorcerer.”
“Oh. Does he also do children’s parties? You know, make fetish balloon animals and then stick pins in them.”
She stares at him in calm silence and waits.
“I mean, really, how does this work?” he asks. “Is this guy out hawking death potions on the street corner? Or did they open a new poison counter at Nordstrom’s?”
“Let me know when you’re done,” she says.
“Come on. You have to admit this sounds like a joke. Four steps beyond implausible. You just happen to meet this man who just happens to be a voodoo juju mercenary who just happens to sell awesomely perfect poison. I assume you did have to buy it. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Expensive?”
“Not cheap,” she says. “But all things considered, not at all unreasonable.”
“Yeah, well that explains part of this.”
“It explains what?”
“Never mind,” he says, waving it off quickly. “So, Bo but-that’s-not-my-real-name has poison for sale. How do you hook up with him?”
“He approached me,” she replies. “But it had nothing to do with poison. He told me I had trouble. Claimed he could sense it. He said he knew the source of my trouble, and he offered to help me deal with it.”
“Meaning me.”
“No, dear. You were not the trouble he identified. After Bo alleviated my problem and I felt I could trust him, only then did I discuss the subject of poison with my new friend.”
He doesn’t really understand that part. What trouble? What did he have to do to earn her trust?
He decides to put it aside for now.
Confusion does not breed amusement.
“Okay, so you bought the poison from Bo. Right?”
“Yes.”
“And how did it get to me?” he asks. “I mean… I poisoned the wine. Excuse me, my wine. How did I do that? When did I do that?”
“If you hadn’t interrupted with all the smartass remarks I would’ve covered that part of the story by now.”
“Sorry. Really. Please, continue. I’ll shut up.”
She sighs. Tries to act uncertain she wishes to continue. But of course she does.
“I purchased a plastic bottle labeled vitamin D. I thought it was apropos. D for death. Inside the bottle were dark green seed pods. Almost like olives. Bo told me what they were, but the only name that stuck with me was Vitamin D. He also gave me some basic instructions and a few suggestions for using the pods. It should have been easy. Should have. But, because of my accident flops, you’re now suspicious and overly cautious. And obviously, also thinking about poison. You eat most of your meals elsewhere. When you do eat at home you prepare the food yourself and avoid all open containers. No way you would accept any food or drink I prepared, served, or had unrestricted access to.”
“True,” he confirms.
“Problem. Meet solution. You, dear man, are consistent to the point of predictability. Every evening you come home, change clothes, annoy me briefly if I allow it, and within five minutes of arrival you are in this room, opening a bottle of wine. If you’re already home, then you’re in here at six o’clock. Occasionally you’ll have one or more of your oenophile friends here to join you. And even they know that if they’re a little late, you will have started without them. The only exception to this ritual is if you, or we, are going out and you’ll be having your wine elsewhere. You do love your wine, dear.”
He nods his head. “Once again, true.”
“Of course, these days you open a new bottle every time. You used to cap them quite often, half full, to finish off the next night. Not anymore. I am curious, darling, are you actually drinking the entire bottle every night? I certainly can’t see you wasting perfectly good wine.”
“Uh,uh. Nice try, but I’ll keep that to myself.”
“Really? You really think that’s a secret worth taking to the grave?”
He looks at her and then slowly breaks into a wide grin. “You’re right. Hardly matters anymore, does it? I do still cap some bottles and sneak them into my office. The bottom drawer of the desk locks.”
“I thought that might be it,” she says, nodding. “But I couldn’t find the key.”
“All right, I satisfied your curiosity. But you’ve yet to satisfy mine. I’m still waiting to hear how I poisoned my own wine.”
“Patience, dear. My story is more complex than yours. And I want you to understand the full measure of it.”
“Fine,“ he says, rolling his eyes. “But, please, speed it along. I think either the poison or sheer boredom is starting to kick in.”
“Certainly, dear.” She increases her cadence, speaking in an almost mechanical tone. “After some experimentation with the product, I came up with a plan. First I had to make certain of three things. You’d be coming home at an expected time, not going out again, and not having company. Again dear, your predictability betrayed you. You try to go to your gym at least twice a week. Irregular, but you try. When you do go, however, it’s always the same. You leave work at 4:30, exercise for approximately one hour, and come directly home after, arriving at 6:30, plus or minus ten minutes. On gym nights, you never go back out again and you never have visitors.”
He hesitates a moment before responding. “I guess that’s true.”
“Guaranteed,” she states. “Now if you recall, last night I told you I probably wouldn’t be home this evening. That was a lie. But that was before the honesty pledge. I knew if you thought you’d have the house to yourself you’d be more inclined to come home and stay home. Today, shortly before five, I called the gym and asked if you were there. Nothing unusual about that. I’ve done it dozens of times. Sometimes to leave you a message, and sometimes, like today, simply to determine if and when to expect you. As we both know, you were there.”
She takes a deep breath, smiles, and returns to a more normal speech pattern. “Here it comes, darling, what you’ve been waiting for. You love your wine. Particularly your red wine. You rarely drink anything else. And red wine means you must use one of those big glasses.”
She points a finger first at his wineglass and then shifts her aim to those remaining in the cabinet.
“Two rows of the big glasses,” she notes. “I put on rubber gloves, and removed those first two glasses, one from each row. I took one vitamin D pod and poked a small hole in it with a toothpick. I squeezed and smeared the sticky juice on the inside of the glass. It looks milky at first, but if you spread it thin it turns transparent when it dries. I used four pods in each glass. Fortunately those glasses have lots of surface area inside to work with. I put the glasses back in the rack, and waited for you to come home. I already knew that I had at least one hour before the poison even began to lose potency. I trusted you to be predictable. You poisoned your own wine as soon as you poured it into the glass.”
“Clever,” he admits.
He steps to the rack, removes the wineglass fronting the second row, and examines it closely against the backlight of a floor lamp.
“Yes, I do see it. A faint distortion. A film on the glass.”
After placing the tainted glass toward the rear of the sideboard, he unfolds a napkin and drapes it over the top of the glass.
“Evidence,” he explains.
“For the moment perhaps. But you’ll be dead soon enough. And then I’ll clean both glasses thoroughly. I’ll put one away. The other, I’ll refill with wine from the bottle and drop it somewhere near your body. I’ll dispose of the remaining vitamins and the rubber gloves. And I’ll have ample time to attend to any other matters that seem necessary. I will then go upstairs and soak in a long, hot bath. A few hours later, after all traces of the poison have dissipated, l will come down and ‘discover’ your corpse. And, distraught and tearful, I will call 911.”
“Brava,” he calls out, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “I cannot deny it. That is a most magnificent murder.”
She remains silent and shows absolutely no reaction.
“It is odd, though,” he adds. “I still feel good. I mean, really good. Better than I’ve felt in months. Maybe I didn’t drink enough of the stuff. You think? Should I have more?”
“As you wish,” she purrs. “You always were impatient. Hurry up and die.”
He takes a step toward the glass, and then stops.
“I have a story of my own,” he says, turning to her. “I had a chance encounter myself recently. Ran into a fellow I used to know in college. Hadn’t seen him since. We weren’t horribly close. More of an acquaintance through mutual friends kind of thing. Anyway, we grabbed a coffee and talked awhile. Caught each other up.”
He moves to stand beside his glass. He reaches out, as if to pick it up. Teasing her. He lets the hand drop and continues talking.
“He was a drama major. Like you. Unlike you, he actually managed to make it beyond local community theater. Though not by much. A lot of off Broadway dreck, a couple of minor bits in the majors. Apparently he did once have three lines with Jerry Orbach in an old Law and Order. Bottom line, his acting career never really took off. But you know how that goes.”
She remains silent and unresponsive.
“His stage name is Jackson Jardine. And that may be his real name. I don’t know. In college I only knew him as JJ. That’s what everybody called him.”
He reaches down and picks up his glass.
“He’s still acting. Local stuff. Not taking it too seriously anymore. Working retail sales to pay the bills and scrape by. So I offered him a job. An acting job.
“Here’s to my old friend,” he declares, raising the glass in toast. “And your new friend. And the African roots and acting talents that bind them.”
He takes another sip and lets it glide down his throat.
It truly is a wonderful wine. He promises himself to pick up some additional bottles.
“What is it you’re trying to suggest, dear?” she asks softly.
“Well, sorry to burst your happy little bubble,” he says. “But your new buddy Bo was not born in Haiti, he was born in West Virginny.”
Her head jerks slightly. “Are you telling me that you hired someone to contact me and pretend to be, as you put it, a witch doctor?”
“No,” he says quickly, throwing up a hand in denial. “That wasn’t my idea. My idea was for him to play a sleazy private detective that I hired to find something incriminating I could use against you. Or set you up. Except he’s decided to double-cross me, probably for more money. The basic concept was to get into your confidence and then actually get something on you. At least maybe find out what you were up to next. Believe me, I had no idea JJ would turn out to be such a ham. In fact, when you started talking about meeting this man I didn’t even make the connection at first. And when I did, my first thought was- oh my god, how lame. What was he thinking. Frankly my dear, I still don’t understand why you fell for it. JJ must be one hell of an actor.”
He can see the muscles twitch in her upper jaw.
“I don’t believe you,” she says.
“No? Well, let’s see, you met your voodoo man the first part of last week. Right? Probably Tuesday. He’s a dark-skinned black man, my age, about an inch shorter than me, medium build.”
“I’d describe Bo as on the thin side.”
“Whatever.”
“Thick accent. A very noticeable scar. Here.” She draws a fingernail diagonally down through her right eyebrow and onto the upper lid.
“He’s an actor. Phony accent. Makeup. And your exotic poison pods are probably from his neighbor’s backyard. He collected quite a bonus for himself by selling those to you, didn’t he? Yeah, I think that may have factored into his role selection. Like I said, he went in to the hilt for this part. I’m surprised he didn’t put a bone in his nose.”
Her eyes narrow. “But you’re definitely not a good actor, dear. You didn’t know about the poison. Your man didn’t tell you about it. He didn’t tell you any of this, did he?”
“No, he didn’t. So? He called me last week. Said he’d met with you the day before. He thought it had gone well, but it was too soon for anything concrete. Of course I asked for details, but he thought the less I knew the better. You and JJ do agree on my acting skills. He said I couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag and he was afraid if I knew too much I’d muck it up and give something away. He told me to just wait and pay attention. I’d recognize it when the time came.”
She attempts a smile, but it looks a little strained. “Perhaps your old friend really did decide to double-cross you. Maybe I made him a better offer.”
“No,” he declares firmly. “JJ knows me. He knows where the money is. I could, and would, better any offer you made.”
“Of course, there are enticements other than money, darling.”
“Forget it. JJ is very gay-gay. One of the reasons why I found him so well suited for this job. I’m aware you’re still quite capable of charming the pants off most men. But in this case, I’d have a better chance of it.”
His mouth is dry. He picks up his wineglass. Reminds himself that some unknown substance was put into this glass.
Besides, the wine and the glass could also be vital pieces of evidence now.
Setting the glass safely aside, he hoists the bottle and takes a deep draw.
He has a vague awareness that its wonderful taste has diminished somewhat.
“You look a bit flushed, dear heart,” she says. “Tick, tock. Do you recognize your time coming?”
“Oh, give it up already. It’s over, woman. Face it. You lost. I have the evidence now. The circumstances. I can call the police and have you arrested. Conspiracy to commit murder. Attempted murder. JJ will testify against you. Happily. I’m sure he’d love to have the opportunity to publicize his star performance.”
He pauses to inhale deeply. It must be the excitement of the moment. He feels almost winded. Like he’d just done twenty minutes on the elliptical.
“But,” he continues. “chances are you and I will disappoint him. Option number two. Tonight, you’ll write a full confession and sign it. I’ll draft a basic divorce agreement and tomorrow we will both visit my attorney and very amicably and very agreeably sign all documents needed to memorialize it. You won’t be particularly pleased with the terms, but I suspect you’ll prefer them to prison.”
Her sudden burst of laughter startles him. And for the moment he ascribes the rapid thrum of his heart to that cause.
“Thank you, darling,” she cries out. “Truly. Thank you for making this evening such a delight. But I think it’s time now to wrap things up. You’re right, dear. I did meet your old friend,” she says, reaching behind her back and bringing out a soft leather drawstring pouch. “To be fair, he was a good actor. I wasn’t convinced of his motives, but I totally believed he was a sleazy detective. And to be honest, I think he might have suckered me in eventually. But right after that first meeting, I met someone else. You see, your friend was the trouble that prompted Bo to approach and offer his assistance.”
Opening the pouch, she slowly extracts a dangling, grotesque shrunken head, eyelids and mouth stitched shut with leather laces.
He can no longer deny reality, as the crippling pressure in his chest forces him down to his knees.
“Sorry, my pet. But your little friend JJ can’t talk to anyone anymore. And my friend is everything he claims to be.”
*****
***
*
Deja Voodoo
“Oh, no, not again.”
Charles quickly closes the front door. He begins to chant the word no repeatedly, punctuating each utterance by bouncing his forehead against the inside door jamb.
After a few seconds he ceases the mild abuse of his brow and inhales deeply.
“Please, don’t do this to me,” he whispers before turning the knob, easing the door open six inches, and carefully peering outside.
Unsurprisingly, his appeal has been denied. It is happening again.
He looks out at the lush bounty of vegetation.
This is not his totally unremarkable semi-neglected, semi-green front yard.
He leans forward, scans left, and locates the obscured but now familiar rough hewn granite altar stained with dark rust colors, mounted before a large carved limestone icon that looks suspiciously like John Belushi with a five day booze binge bloat and a minor to moderate case of demonic possession, seated Buddha style on the very spot where his totally unremarkable seven year old Toyota Camry (with the crumpled right rear quarter panel and extra large coffee splotch on the passenger side floorboard) should be.
Not that the car would be of much use now, completely unsuitable for navigating the brackish waters of the river flowing languidly through the landscape where Viajes Street is supposed to be.
This is not his totally unremarkable Southern California residential neighborhood.
As if someone, during the night while he slept, plucked his modestly appointed, two bedroom stucco box from its preferred perch and dropped it smack dab in the middle of a tropical jungle of his non-choosing.
Again.
Today is the fourth time Charles has been the recipient of this unwelcome change of venue. Four times in the last three weeks.
Location, location, location.
He stifles the urge to scream unremarkable obscenities at Belushi, and the river, and the jungle, and all its unseen but decidedly not unheard constituent wildlife.
But especially at Belushi.
He’s not really sure why, but he is of the opinion that in some manner or another Belushi (the oversized icon, not the man) bears direct responsibility for his displacement.
For the record, Charles does realize that Belushi (the man) likely would’ve had little to do with either the act of teleporting homes or his namesake’s resemblance even when he was still alive. And since then, obviously even less so.
Charles closes the door and slumps his back against it.
From prior experience he feels reasonably safe as long as he remains indoors. It’s only out there that jeopardy attaches and becomes the name of the game. However, in this version of the game no one supplies either answers or questions (with the possible exception of “why?”).
Unfortunately, experience would also seem to indicate that if Charles does not go out there, out there will simply remain (in non-standard format) and wait for him to do so. How long it will wait is still up for grabs, but then so is how far he’s willing to go to test it.
***
The first time it happened was a Monday morning. A typical, totally unremarkable morning. Shower, shave, get dressed, two cups of coffee, maybe a bowl of cold cereal, maybe plan to pick something up on the way to work, whatever. Eventually he opens the door to leave for work. Unsurprisingly, Charles is quite surprised.
The first thing he does is turn and examine the door. As if somehow he’s managed to mistakenly open the wrong door. A different door. Not the one that goes outside, but rather some forgotten closet where he’s storing a jungle. A jungle inadvertently left here by a guest perhaps, or a previous tenant.
Surprise dims to bewilderment. And natural curiosity. Charles crosses the threshold, closing the door behind, and steps cautiously but innocently into the alien environment. Amazed, and in awe, he touches plants, verifying their existence. He catches first sight of the altar and icon. (Not yet noting its Belushi-ness however.) He strolls in a sense of wonder, trying to construct some logical explanation.
He strolls for less than a minute. Less than thirty feet. Toward the river’s bank.
He hears something moving in the dense foliage to his left. Something large. Large, and approaching steadily. Steadily, and now with greater haste. Hastily, he turns to run. Immediately, something slams into his back, pitching him forward.
The next thing he knows, he awakens on his own bed. Fully dressed and drenched in sweat; head throbbing painfully; left arm raked with dried blood scratches; and barely enough strength to make it to the toilet before puking his guts out.
It is one o’clock in the afternoon.
A quick visual peek outside confirms a return to normalcy.
He calls his manager at work with an apology for not calling before, and the excuse of a sudden and violent stomach illness. Possibly food poisoning. No problem. Charles is a solid, if unremarkable, employee who is usually punctual and seldom misses work.
By evening Charles is seriously questioning what really happened. Wondering if he really had been stricken by some extreme malady during the night, and jungleland was simply a slice of fever induced dreamscape.
It is as logical a conclusion as any.
The memory begins to fade.
By Saturday morning the event is almost forgotten. He sleeps late. He arises at nine and opens the bedroom curtains. The grey sky and drizzling rain that has dominated the last two days has passed. The sun is shining and it looks to be a wonderful day. He thinks about calling a young woman he met recently, and recalls that the scrap of paper with her number is in the center console of his car.
The second time it happened Charles was more annoyed than surprised.
He stands in the doorway, looking out at jungleland, and shaking his head no.
He quickly decides that it isn’t real. He is still asleep. It is only a dream.
He closes the door. Locks it. (Even in dreams, it can’t hurt to secure your door.) He returns to the bedroom, with the intent to continue sleeping, finish the dream, and then actually wake up in the real world.
Entering the bedroom, he sees the real world outside his window. His backyard.
Charles has an ah,ha moment.
He hurries into the kitchen, crosses to the back door, and throws it open.
Jungle. A different perspective of the theme, of course, but still jungleland.
He returns to the living room and opens the blinds on that large window. Everything looks good. He opens the door four feet from the window. Jungleland.
Charles has a what the… moment.
Now firmly convinced of the dream theory, he returns to the bedroom, closes the curtains, and crawls into bed. He hadn’t yet changed out of pajama bottoms and t-shirt so he has successfully reset the proper sleep scenario.
After an hour he gives up the idea of falling asleep. Or waking up. Or some variation thereof.
He gets up and begins to investigate the finer points of his situation. He discovers:
All vital utilities are intact. Running water, electricity, gas.
The television has power, but there is literally nothing on. He gets a ‘NO SIGNAL RECEIVED’ error message on every channel.
Cell phone also seems to work, he has a dial tone, but after dozens of attempts he cannot get a single call to go through. He enters phone numbers and nothing happens. He can, however, retrieve the voice mail message from his mother, who called twenty minutes earlier. His phone never rang.
Every window in the house displays a scene of normal familiarity. If closed.
But if opened, even the tiniest crack… jungleland.
All windows and doors remain closed.
Being a Saturday, Charles decides that there is no urgency to leave the house today. No need to do so at all.
He spends a quiet and unremarkable day at home. It is, perhaps, the longest, most boring day of his young life. His primary activity for the next ten hours is to check a door, or a window, or the TV, or the cell phone, or the refrigerator (the road to boredom is paved with hunger and thirst), or any combination thereof, every ten minutes or so.
By nightfall he’s about ready to surrender and take a walk outside. He throws open the door. Jungleland after dark. Thick, impenetrable dark. Darker than any city with a streetlight on every corner could ever be. Scary dark.
He decides to drink his last three bottles of beer and the remainder of a small open flask of tequila instead. And then, sufficiently anointed, he goes to bed.
He awakes in the morning with a mild headache, cotton mouth, and a renewed hope of an unremarkably beautiful day.
He opens the bedroom curtains. He opens the bedroom window. He mutters the word shit four times and closes both window and curtains.
He refuses to be held prisoner in his own home. Especially one without alcohol.
Fifteen minutes later Charles opens the front door, dressed in durable, lightweight, jungle appropriate attire (the khaki, multi-pocketed pants were actually bought at Banana Republic) and armed with the biggest knife he can find- which is, unfortunately, just a six inch steak knife with a black plastic handle.
He steps outside, pauses, his hand still on the doorknob. No, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving the door open. Inviting something to invade his sanctuary.
He closes the door quietly.
After moving a few feet, he pulls out his cell phone. Maybe the reception is better out here. He calls 911. Nothing.
Knife at the ready (although he is unsure exactly where ‘the ready’ is), Charles advances without incident to the location of the altar and icon. He examines the copious display of apparent bloodstains on the altar with mounting unease and glances up at the icon’s visage.
“Hey, screw you, Belushi,” he says, almost without thinking. “What are you grinning about?”
The next thing he knows… repeat chorus… bed, sweat, headache, arm scratched (the other arm however), puke. The only real difference is this time he’s out one steak knife and half his face is painted white with some chalky crap.
Charles begins to suspect that something is wrong with his mind. A brain tumor? A schizoaffective disorder? Too much violence on the tube and in his video games?
Monday morning he phones to make a doctor’s appointment. The soonest they can see him is the following Tuesday morning. More than a week. Eight days. Not great, but it’s the best he can do.
He doesn’t sleep well at night. He doesn’t concentrate well at work. The mornings, of course, are especially hard. Taking that first look to see what’s out there.
On Friday he notifies the job of the Tuesday a.m. medical appointment and arranges a half day sick leave.
The third time it happened was particularly aggravating. Charles stands in the open doorway on Tuesday morning, clenching his jaw tightly, and cursing the gods of abject inopportunity.
He doesn’t have time for this now. Not now. He has a freaking mental defection to take care of.
Charles has another ah, ha moment.
Maybe he doesn’t have to stay out there until something bad happens.
Pretend to leave. Go outside, take a few steps, come right back. Maybe that would be enough to trigger the reset button and make it all go away. At least for the moment. It’s worth a try.
He steps outside. Closes the door. (It needs to look genuine, after all.) He steps off the welcome mat and the small concrete pad outside his door and down into the jungle itself. He takes two strides forward, turns, and races back to the door.
The doorknob will not budge. Not one iota.
“No”, Charles denies firmly, “no, no, no, no, no.”
He is positive he did not lock the door. Positive. One hundred and, oh, okay, ninety-eight percent positive. No, he did not lock that door.
Belushi did it.
Damn Belushi.
All right. New plan. Maybe, if he can get far enough away from the house. Maybe then… Charles takes a deep breath, lowers his shoulder, and begins to run. Away from Belushi, away from the river. The power halfback crashing through the green defensive line and the vegetative secondary. Racing towards… what?
His foot plunges through the palm frond and loose brush covering a large, open pit. The rest of him follows accordingly.
And… bed, sweat, head pain, ankle sprain, bloody nose, knee won’t bend, elbow won’t straighten, puke. Plus he’s missing one shoe and two buttons from his shirt. And he smells like three day old elephant dung. (Not that he really knows what elephant dung of any vintage smells like, but he’s fairly certain the comparison is not an unreasonable one.)
He’s also missed his appointment by over four hours.
He calls the doctor immediately after he’s done puking. He apologizes profusely and tells the woman on the phone precisely what happened in detail and why he missed his scheduled appointment.
She listens politely and informs him that he will still have to pay for the office visit, and perhaps he should consider taking his problem to a different sort of doctor.
His manager accepts his apology and his request to extend his half day absence into a full day, but with a lesser degree of graciousness attached.
***
The fourth time it happened was two days later. Today. Thursday.
Charles really was not expecting it again so soon.
He is at the point of complete exasperation. It isn’t fair. He’s still bruised and gimpy from the last time. This has to stop. He can’t keep doing this. Over and over again. No more. He’s going to end up in the hospital. Or the morgue. He’s going to lose his job. He’s going to lose his mind. Assuming he hasn’t already.
He trudges into the kitchen and rummages through the lower drawers until he finds what he is looking for. Duct tape.
He thinks about having a good breakfast first, but figures there’s a good chance he’ll just be barfing it up again later, so why bother.
Might as well get it over with.
He exits through the back door this time, applying a strip of duct tape to prevent the lock from engaging. He scans the immediate area outside carefully.
Keeping the house at his back, he slides down to the southeast corner. The house has no windows on its east face, therefore he has not yet seen what that direction offers.
Cautiously, he slips around the corner and pauses.
Mostly, the view offers more jungle. However, through a small gap in the trees, he sees a plume of dark smoke rising in the distance. Almost certainly of human origin.
Interesting.
Charles makes a conscious decision not to have an ah,ha moment.
But he does allow himself a good idea. Go back inside, gather up all the paper and any other flammables he can spare, get a lighter, and bring it all outside. Start a fire. A big bonfire. Someone will either see the smoke and come, or maybe he’ll just burn the damn jungle down.
Something stings the side of his neck. A fingertip examination produces a slender one inch long thorn coated with a dark, sticky substance.
Probably not a good thing.
A tall black man, barefoot and resplendent in colorful animal skins and bone jewelry, emerges from the foliage. He is smiling cheerfully. White teeth shining bright in contrast to his dark skin.
Charles hesitates. The smile seems friendly. That’s good. But then he notices what appears to be a blowpipe in the man’s hand. Not so good.
“Greetings,” the man calls out in a booming baritone voice. “Is good day.”
“Uh, huh,” Charles says, raising the thorn-like dart. “Did you… blow..?” he begins, and then shifts gears. “Is this yours?” he asks.
“Yes, it is,” the man replies with pride. “I, Khaana,” he proclaims, slapping a hand against his bare chest, “prepare chosen one to appease great god Hwantu in sacrifice.”
Oh, definitely not good.
“You what?” Charles says, dropping the small dart and wiping his sticky fingers on his pants leg. “You poisoned me?”
“No, not poison,” the man assures. “Sweat from Red Mato frog. Make a body relax. Very relax. Soon, you fall down. Not get up. But you still alive. You still see and hear and feel everyt’ing. But no move.” His smile widens. “When I slit you belly open, you feel a blade slice t’rough one’s flesh. You see one’s insides pulled out for a feast. If gods smile, a heart still beats when I rip it from one’s breast. It is very good.” He cocks his head and shrugs. “You do die. But not now. Later, after much pain. A deat’ worse from fate, yes?”
Charles is teetering, struggling to remain upright. “But…” his slack tongue is barely able to form words, “why… me?” he asks.
“But why not, Chuck?” Khaana says. “You totally unremarkable. You really t’ink you got somet’ing better to do today but appease a god?”
Articulate response is no longer an option for Charles. His spaghetti legs now past al dente, he sinks, slow motion, into an awkward heap on the ground.
Khaana approaches, lifts the body like it was no more than a sleeping toddler and carries it, still twitching, to the stone altar.
He lays the body upon the altar, face up, head toward the icon. Charles’ eyes, powered by fear, blink open and ease shut on an almost rhythmic schedule. Khaana positions the body. Arms to the side, palms up. Legs straight, feet spread one hand span apart.
Removing a small bladder tied to his waistband, Khaana squeezes a glob of white manja root paste onto a vine leaf and spreads it over half of the chosen one’s face.
He rips open the shirt to fully expose the chest, presses his hand against it and grins. The heart beats slow but steady. It is good.
He uses the bladder directly on the chosen’s chest now, drawing an intricate pattern of five circles (two big and three small), three squiggly lines, and one triangle.
From a concealed recess near the base of the icon he draws forth the ceremonial dagger. Handle wrapped with skin from a gaboon viper, and a long, double edged blade carved from the thigh bone of a ten year old virgin boy-child. (Victim of an unfortunate non-industrial accident.)
Grasping the dagger with both hands, Khaana extends his arms so the point of the blade hovers just inches above the chosen body. He closes his eyes and raises his face toward the sky. As he quietly intones the ritual incantations he feels the spirits gather near. His body begins to sway from side to side in hypnotic harmony. His chanting grows louder.
Khaana’s concentration is suddenly disturbed by an annoying yapping sound.
He opens his eyes and looks down… not at the altar and the ready to be sacrificial chosen one, but at the front hood of a metallic silver, midsize, Japanese sedan. He looks around at the asphalt paved street, and the endless row of stucco boxes, and the short grass fields dotted with but a few small, sickly trees. And all the noise. He turns and snarls at the miniature poodle yapping at his heels and nipping at his furs, and sends it scurrying away toward the house next door.
Khaana’s chin sinks to his chest as he shakes his head slowly.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Not again.”
***
**
*
Author’s note: As soon as he was done puking, Charles read the novel “APRIL 33” by my wife’s second favorite writer. Please find a copy for yourself and enjoy it. Consider it an act of community service, because if you don’t read it some other less deserving soul may have to.
If you would like to contact me with comments, criticisms, or sublime suggestions… email me at wbenham33@sbcglobal.net.
Support intelligent thought and healthy imagination….. read!